


heartbeats under coats

by onceuponamoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:59:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like Steve’s a delicate flower or anything, but walking around the city in sub-zero weather is kind of cramping his style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heartbeats under coats

**Author's Note:**

> I miss winter.
> 
> This is a weird, unbeta'd stream of consciousness kind of thing. Title from Taylor Swift's "Welcome to New York."

It’s not like Steve’s a delicate flower or anything, but walking around the city in sub-zero weather is kind of cramping his style. 

Ice crystals flake off of eaves, drift down unnoticed, unnamed, unnumbered within the fluffy white puffs raining down from somewhere beyond the skyscraping rooftops, a particularly satisfying scratch at an itch that can’t be reached without help. All of it – fluffy, fat and white, two seconds from melting, somehow more ice than snow – catches on the blond hair escaping from his beanie, the sweep of lashes edging toward his rosy, wind-kissed cheeks, the wooly nest of the scarf tucked beneath his chin.

Steve’s bundled, but freezing, determined as the persistent gusts of blustering wind that wind and wind and wind through the buildings, squat and towering, to creep down the back of his neck – the unwanted breath of a subway passenger that says, “ _Excuse_ you.” 

He’s got a project to finish.

Sam’s filming him, snaking through alleyways and around storefronts, NO LOITERING and HELP WANTED, creaking grates that require rusty keys and averted eyes; Steve has known these streets longer than he’d known his own parents, and something about that shouldn’t feel so right. 

“You got what you need yet?” Sam asks, wide, gapped smile worn through to an exhausted, thin line. He’s always good-natured, though, forever Dependable Sam, following Steve in a _crshh-crshh-crshh_ of boots in snow and laughter echoing between buildings, between classes. “If not, how about a coffee break? My feet are killin’ me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says, “sounds good.” 

The best places aren’t crowded, aren’t cloyed with perfume or patchouli, allow dogs and bright but subtle art from locals. Steve’s been a big fan of The Spry ever since Ethel at Peggy’s nursing home bragged about her sexy pool boy getting a job there once her sons sold her house, him being one of the few employees below the age of thirty. “Blonde hair, blue-eyed, and an ass to _die_ for, god rest my aging soul. Wouldn’t mind to go out that way.” She’d crossed herself; Peggy had laughed, the first Steve had heard in ages – since before the stroke, long after their first meeting, sometime around the sundowners’ development.

Steve leads Sam that way, crunching through the snow that’s been scraped clear of the sidewalk, arms out for balance or maybe to be snow angel-ready even as he keeps his eyes peeled for anymore earbud adornments.

The Spry offers antique couches and coffee tables, donated from estates and employees, scuffed and worn and loved, ranging between slightly damaged and FOR SALE for art parts. (Steve bought something that used to be an end table and turned it into something deconstructed, refurbished, unlaid for an art final his junior year; he’d gotten critiqued harshly, like everyone else, exonerated with full marks.) His favorite place to sit, warm mug between mittened palms and freed fingers, is in the far corner on a settee with wood trim, clawed feet, and an end table with the most hideous lamp he’s ever seen.

Ruthie always chats with Sam, or maybe Sam always chats with Ruthie, and Steve likes to sit and listen, sip slowly. “Yeah,” Sam’s saying, “you know how Steve is; we’ll be at this ‘til he’s found what he’s looking for.”

It’s true. Steve never knows what he’s looking for when he starts, but once he’s found it, it’s clear. 

“Hey, man,” Sam says, settling in next to Steve with a sigh as he kicks his feet up onto a coffee table. The place is fairly empty, bereft of college students who must’ve started their winter breaks early, haunted with only a few and a small handful of miscellaneous people. “You want to head down to Manhattan after this? There’ll be more people.”

“Less willing to stop and chat, though,” Steve points out. Hairs bristling, blood defiant, fingers clenching. “’Specially if I’m bothering them. Brooklyn’s good.”

Good-natured Sam says, “If you say so man.”

In the opposite corner, there’s a man with scrapes and bruised eyes, a yellow lab panting happily at his feet, an entire carafe on his table just beyond the spread of textbooks; he’s probably a grad student. Steve wanders over after his refill to get closer to the dog, who presses its nose to the man’s leg. He startles, looks up, tugs off his headphones.

“Hi,” Steve says, friendly as he can, “What’s your dog’s name?”

Steve notices he’s Deaf in the pause that lingers between his sentence and the guy’s response. “Lucky. He’s not my dog.”

 _He’s definitely your dog_ , Steve signs, watching the guy perk up a bit at Steve’s blunted motions, mittens muffling before Steve remembers, tugs them off, tucks them away. _I’m S-T-E-V-E._

 _C-L-I-N-T. It’s nice to meet someone else in the Deaf community_ , Clint signs, shifting from side-to-side in his chair, similar to the wagging tail of his four-legged companion at their feet. 

Lucky whuffs and Steve signs, _Can I?_ laughing when Clint signs back, _He’s always a slut for belly rubs_ , a joking quirk to his mouth.

It takes a little while for Steve to get around to asking Clint what he’s listening to, if he can actually hear it, but he gets the information he needs and Clint gets a break from THE LEGAL ENVIRONMENT TODAY – USED. Steve thinks it’s a decent trade. After petting Lucky one last time and a signed, _See you around!_ , Steve heads back to Sam and asks, “Did you get that?”

Sam grins.

Once their coffees are drained and Sam says goodbye Ruthie, who slides free pastries across the counter and won’t take no for an answer, they head back out to brave the winter, trying to gather insight and a little bit of faith. 

“Hey,” Sam says, pointing east, “there’s one.”

The subject in question – blue peacoat, high bun, broad shoulders – clomps carefully down the steps to wait for the A-train behind a woman talking loudly into an iPhone and in front of a paunchy man with a briefcase. They’ve given him a two-step berth, wider than Steve and Sam warrant, apparently, because they’re not as imposing as a guy with stretched ears and some black ink creeping up the side of his neck – birds, flowers, words. 

Steve is good at playing nonchalant when it’s not actually needed, terrible when it is, so he taps the guy on the shoulder, startled when his grip slips, falls through like a dropped stitch, a hole in a sweater. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Steve breathes, eyes wide, looking up and up and up into wide blue – ice and ocean and smoke-filled skies. “I’m so sorry, I –”

Extracting an earbud, the guy’s gaze trains on Steve. “Tried touching me without my permission?” the man drawls, corner of his mouth pursing sideways in a lazy, intrigued smirk. “But hey, it’s fine – long as you’ve learned your lesson about touching strangers.”

As he scratches the back of his neck, rosy cheeks and frigid fingers, Steve says, “Christ, I’m – I’m real sorry about that. I didn’t –” 

The man’s appraising look doesn’t go unnoticed, though; it’s down and up, chunky boots to side-swept hair. Steve’s breath catches in his throat, tangled in a web of words and thoughts and his clumsy tongue. 

“Can I, uh…make it up to you?”

Lips pucker-purse, considering, and then he extends his right hand, says, “Alright,” and then smiles, with an, “I’m Bucky. Nice to meet you.”

Steve fills in the blank with his name, asks, “Bucky?” and laughs – 

When the guy gives a wry, “Don’t ask.” Bucky keeps smiling though, at least until –

Sam interjects with, “Great! And I’m Sam. Sorry about Steve, here, he forgets his manners when he’s had too much coffee and not enough fresh air,” and then goes straight into, “Do you mind if we film you for a project?” with no segue whatsoever.

Bucky though, bless him with soft kisses and kittens purring and sunshowers in the spring, just laughs and says, “Well you don’t beat around the bush, do ya, Sam?”

“I –”

“Please no ‘your mom’ jokes, Sam,” Steve hisses, apples of his cheeks crisp and cold, bitten by the wind and embarrassment in equal turns.

“It’s alright,” Bucky says, shifting the strap of his backpack a little higher. The movement makes his chin tuck, an echo forming just beneath the bone, a dimple and a scritch of shadow since it’s just past five o’clock. “But, uh, what’s it for?”

“Statistics for him,” Sam explains, pointing with a thumb at Steve, “and psychology for me.” 

Bucky shrugs, lopsided. “Yeah, sure,” he says, “Why not?”

Roll tape, and Sam’s thumbs up, Steve turns to Bucky, eyes catching as he asks, “I actually approached you because I had a question for you.” He clears his throat. “What song are you listening to?”

Tongue flicking out to wet pouted lips, Bucky looks – _bashful_. “Uh,” he says, looking down at the touchscreen as his cheeks pink, “You’re gonna laugh…”

“Promise I won’t,” Steve retorts, charmed.

“It’s – Taylor Swift…‘I Know Places,’ actually.”

Instead of laughing, Steve can barely keep his enthusiasm under wraps. His hands fly up to his mouth, hiding his grin behind his mittens, even as he squeaks, “I love Taylor Swift.”

“It’s a great song!” Bucky raves, “1989 is so different from her other albums, and it’s just – it’s nice to have something upbeat and catchy for the commute.”

“Right?” Steve grins, tucking his hand into his coat pocket to keep from flailing all excitedly. “Like, no offense, but – actually, it’s kind of Sam’s part of the project – you totally don’t look, ya know, the type. I was kinda expecting some, like, German death metal.”

Bucky’s laugh is soft, scrunched nosed and closed eyes. “German _death metal_? What like _Die Apokalyptischen Reiter_?”

Steve barks a laugh in response. “The fact that you pulled that name straight out of your ass says enough. What brought on the bubblegum pop and sunshine?”

“I dunno,” Bucky says, shrugging lopsidedly, voice a tease, “maybe I’d just reached my quota of angst for the day.”

“Ah, right. _Completely_ understandable.” Steve’s finding himself oddly charmed, amused by the lazy easy-going way Bucky’s going along with his project. “No need to ease your way through grunge or pop-punk – just go straight for the Taylor Swift, right, of course.”

Again, Bucky laughs and Steve feels drawn, caught, tangled, frozen by the obvious delight in each crease formed like secrets hidden away in the gentle lines and blurred edges of which he’s comprised. 

Time slips passed – between the steel tracks, bunched clothing, and vaunted fervor – and the A-train comes, Sam pointing it out while both Steve and Bucky look, like Sam’s words aren’t good as gospel. Sure enough, it’s there, _here_ , and Steve feels bereft in a strange immediacy. Looking back at Bucky, it doesn’t seem so bizarre – stretched ears and tattoos, pierced nose and long hair – that Steve wants to sketch him into his day for a little while longer. 

“Hey, uh, this is mine,” Bucky says. His lower lip tucks beneath his teeth, pops free wet and red and luscious. “This was –”

“Thanks,” Steve blurts.

Sam, patience threadbare from a day walking the streets of Brooklyn in blustering wind, says, “Steve, just get on with it already, man.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve dips his mittened fingers into his pocket to retrieve his phone, freeing his fingers to resuscitate it, screen bright in the dim underground. The train’s brakes screech as it decelerates, squealing to a stop. The doors _cruhh_ open, passengers flowing free while rude boarders make a salmon run. “Can I have your number?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s grin is more of a smirk, enchanted for whatever reason, but he rattles off his eleven-key code, one in six or seven billion possible that’ll sustain this connection so new and delicate and waiting, bated, to be nourished. Bucky maintains a tiny, pleased smile even as Sam tries to get Steve to move onto another person wearing headphones, tugging his arm, urging him along, on to the next target more like the rest with a quick response, a dazed but happily surprised expression – like it’s a novelty to have a complete stranger take an interest. His hand lifts in a wave that goes unseen, broad shoulders and soft eyes disappearing behind the _shhp_ of closing doors. 

Steve wants to know more in a striking, immediate way.

“You got everything you need?” Sam asks, pulling Steve back into reality.

It’s cold, sunlight’s waning, and Steve’s pleased with today’s findings. Ice and snow crunch beneath his boots, creaking as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, remembering. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I’m good.”

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on [tumblr](http:onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com)!


End file.
